A Single Soul
by Mrs Tompkinson
Summary: My 1st BallyK FF! I started this story several months ago after re-watching BallyK on TV The ending to Series 3 still upsets me after 12 years! This is how I think the relationship between Peter and Assumpta should've turned out. T.B.C. Please review!
1. Chapter 1 A Mother's Love

**Chapter 1 – A Mother's Love**

A picture of St. Bernadette praying to the Virgin Mary hung forlornly on the bare wall of the room in the Little Sister's of the Poor hospice. A small Plaster of Paris figurine of the Sacred Heart was keeping vigil over his mother, next to a vase of freshly cut bloom chrysanthemums on the bedside cabinet.

Peter sat silently next to her, head bowed; repeatedly reciting the prayers she had taught him as a child. He stroked her frail hand, unconsciously tracing the narrow blue veins which protruded through her transparent skin. Peter wondered how long she had left. He knew it would be days rather than weeks. He'd ministered enough dying parishioners in the past five years to know the inevitability of his mother's illness. She was sleeping peacefully at the moment, aided by the recent shot of morphine. The rest of his family had taken the opportunity to go for a quick lunch; he'd eaten a hurriedly bought sandwich in the taxi on his way from the airport. Peter was grateful to be able to spend this time alone with her.

Mary opened her eyes slowly and watched him for several minutes, full of unconditional love. She hadn't seen her middle (and favourite) son for several months. It wasn't his fault, his vocation dictated where he lived and visits home were not allowed without good reason. Mary noted that Peter was still the spit and image of his father, her beloved Robert - from his tall, lanky frame to his long, slender fingers. Even the way he sat reminded her of her dead husband. Mary observed him meditating quietly. All through his life, Peter had always been at peace with himself, unlike his brothers, but now she could sense he was deeply troubled, something serious was eating away at his very soul. Mary grasped his hand as tightly as she could muster.

"Peter, love, what's wrong?" she murmured, her voice no more than a whisper.

Her lilting Teesside accent jolted him from his thoughts. His mother was dying, yet her concern, as ever, was still for him.

"Nothing, mum, I'm just tired, that's all."

"You can't fool me……" she continued matter of fact, looking Peter directly in the eye, "…….Tell me about her."

Peter was astonished at his mother's perception. He'd said nothing to anyone in his family about the crisis he had been suffering in the past three months or so. Yet he knew he shouldn't be that surprised - Mary had always been able to read him like an open book.

It was difficult at first. His vocation as a priest had brought his mother, a devout Roman Catholic, great joy. The last thing he wanted to do was to upset her, especially as this would probably be the last conversation they would ever have.

"I know what you are thinking, Peter," Mary uttered, interrupting his thoughts, "I love you. My only wish for you is to be happy."

Peter gradually opened up to her, encouraged not only by his mother's words, but by her tender smile and caring eyes. The more he spoke, the easier the words flowed. His mother was the first person Peter had been able to talk honestly to about Assumpta and he felt a huge weight lifting from his shoulders.

Mary watched as Peter's deep green eyes became animated as he spoke heartfelt about Assumpta – how his heart leapt when he saw her; how he couldn't get her out of his head; how he couldn't sleep because of her; how he felt empty when she wasn't there. Mary had seen that look before, in the same green eyes of her husband when he'd declared his love for her forty three years ago. She knew instinctively what Peter was feeling was real, not a whim or a crush, and at that moment she knew what she had to say to him.

"Peter, do you love Assumpta?" Mary asked clutching her beloved son's hand.

"Yes mum, I do. More than anything in the world," he replied without any hesitation.

Mary continued, "Does she love you?"

"I don't know…" Peter responded honestly, "……..I think she might. I've never told her how I feel."

"Well then you _must_ tell her. You need to know how she feels about you. If she loves you as much as you say you love her, you'll know what you need to do."

Peter smiled appreciatively at his mother. She really was a very wise and compassionate woman.


	2. Chapter 2 Kowalski's Mother

**Chapter 2 – Kowalski's Mother**

Peter stood outside of Fitzgerald's in the darkness for several minutes, pacing up and down on the spot. He'd just returned to the Southern Irish town of Ballykissangel a couple of hours ago, only two days after his mother's funeral in Manchester. His palms were sweating and there were butterflies in his stomach as he pushed the familiar blue door open. He desperately wanted to see Assumpta again, to tell her how he felt. His mother had given him her blessing just two days before she had died.

All the usual suspects were present in the bar: Brendan and Siobhan; Brian, Donal and Liam. Padraig was in full-flow in his usual place, telling one of his infamous tales in his distinctive Irish brogue.

Assumpta's heart missed a beat as Peter entered the pub. He was wearing 'civvies', a green and pale blue checked shirt and jeans, not his usual black suit, black shirt and white Roman collar. Dressed like that she could pretend momentarily that he was just a man and not a Catholic priest. She couldn't stop herself smiling radiantly at him and her heart melted as it was returned with equal measure. No-one else had spotted him, they were all engrossed in Padraig's craic; Peter remained by the door and tuned in belatedly to the story.

"…………Kowalski's mother has just died and I want you to remember what I said when you tell him……."

Horror rose in Assumpta's throat as she realised the significance of these words to Peter. She searched his face for any signs of distress - he was wearing a façade of normality but his empty green eyes expressed his sadness to her clearly. She stared anxiously at everyone else in the bar, desperately trying to draw their attention to the 'Prodigal's return' with her eyes. Peter stood there his finger up at his lips, silently telling everyone not to interrupt. Brendan tried to make his friend aware of Peter's unexpected arrival, using an authoritative voice usually reserved for his classroom, but to no avail.

Padraig continued with full gusto, "Any man on board who's got a mother, take a step forward."

Peter advanced briskly, stopping by Padraig's shoulder. Everyone else in Fitzgerald's held their breath, unsure of where to look. Padraig was clearly shocked by Peter's appearance and embarrassed by the inappropriateness of his joke. Unsure of what to do, he continued with the punch-line in a flat, monotone.

"Not so fast, Kowalski………."

Peter tried his best to de-fuse the situation by delivering the line again, this time in a commanding American accent, more befitting of the gag, but was met with stunned silence.

"I'm really sorry, I don't know what to say…….." Padraig stammered, completely mortified by his unintentional insensitivity.

Peter nudged Padraig on the shoulder in a forgiving manner, fully aware that his friend hadn't known he was in the bar and had meant no harm.

"Buy us a beer," Peter said in his distinctive Northern English accent, a sympathetic smile on his face. Almost without delay, he continued, "Anyone who can tell a joke take one step forward………Not so fast, Padraig!"

The tense atmosphere in Fitzgerald's immediately returned to its usual friendly state as everyone laughed at Peter's quick-witted response.


	3. Chapter 3 The Polar Bear

**Chapter 3 – The Polar Bear**

Niamh and Ambrose had already left for their rare night out in Cilldargan, baby Kieran was fast asleep in his nursery and Peter was busy preparing his entry for the Chinese Food Festival in the Gard house's kitchen. Without warning, the front door opened and he could hear footsteps in the hall above him. Peter was bemused - the Egan's hadn't told to him to expect anyone.

Assumpta's unmistakable voice echoed down the corridor, "Hi, sorry I'm late!"

"Hi," he replied weakly, his heart beating much faster than it had been just seconds earlier. Why was Assumpta here?

"Peter!" Assumpta exclaimed, equally surprised to find Peter in Niamh's home.

"They've gone," Peter continued, trying to speak in as normal a voice as possible.

"Oh well…erm…thanks for filling in," she managed to stutter in reply.

Assumpta shuffled awkwardly at the top of the stairs, twisting the bottle of wine she had brought with her nervously in her hands. She wasn't quite sure what to do next. She felt like a teenage girl just about to start a date with the boy she'd had a crush on for several weeks. The only differences were she was a grown woman, he was a priest and this wasn't a date! Why did Peter have this effect on her? She knew any feelings she had for him would always be unrequited.

"Ridiculous! Pull yourself together!" she murmured to herself.

Assumpta composed herself as best as she could before heading purposefully down the stairs into the kitchen. Her heart immediately skipped a beat when she saw his tall, athletic frame, propping up the sink. He looked so handsome in his charcoal grey shirt and jeans. He smiled at her, his gentle green eyes lighting up the minute he saw her.

As she walked in, Peter held his breath momentarily. Assumpta appeared more beautiful than he could remember with her milky-white, porcelain skin and tousled auburn hair, a small strand of which hung haphazardly over her right eye. It took all of his strength not to take hold it and place it back where it belonged.

Peter took the bottle of Merlot from her, opened it and poured them both a generous glass.

"Dutch courage," he thought to himself.

They talked awkwardly for several minutes; the kitchen table keeping them a safe distance apart, as the electricity gradually began to build up.

Peter tried to lighten the atmosphere with his 'party-piece', a Sean Connery impersonation from 'The Untouchables'. Assumpta was extremely impressed with the accuracy of his imitation and grinned appreciatively at him.

"Do you do any others?" she enquired nonchalantly.

For some unknown reason, this innocent question touched a raw nerve and Peter's frivolous mood changed instantaneously to one of melancholy. Perhaps it was the combination of alcohol, lack of sleep, his mother's death and the stress of suppressing his feelings for Assumpta for so long that finally got to him? In spite of his genuine fear that she would reject him, he knew he had to tell her how he felt, here and now, but he just couldn't find the right words to tell her directly.

"A priest," Peter mumbled his head bowed to cover his embarrassment.

"Peter, you are a priest!" Assumpta retorted quickly, without fully comprehending what he was intimating.

"Am I?" he continued, challenging her again to understand.

"Last time I looked," she continued matter of fact.

Assumpta pulled herself onto a nearby work surface and watched as Peter deliberately turned away from her. He grabbed hold of the nearest side as if his life depended on it. The knuckles of his strong, slender hands turned whiter and whiter, as he increased his grip. His body language indicated that he was distressed: his shoulders were hunched over; his head hung down in despair; pain was etched across his normally animated face.

"Peter, what's wrong?" she asked.

Her soft Irish lilt was now full of genuine concern for this man, whom she secretly loved.

Peter paused for several seconds as he attempted and failed to make sense of what he wanted to say to her. Without turning to face her, he took a deep breath and began to explain in the only way that he could.

"It's very hard for me….I don't know where to start," Peter whispered, his voice cracking with the enormity of what he was trying to say, "Have you heard the polar bear joke?"

A look of confusion crossed Assumpta's face. He wasn't making much sense. Why was he telling her a joke when he seemed so unhappy?

"Okay. There's a baby polar bear, and he's in the sea, and he climbs out, runs across the ice up to his mum, and he says '_Mum, are you sure I'm a polar bear_?' She says '_Don't be silly, course you are. You've got white fur, you eat fish – you're a polar bear_. _Don't be daft. Get back in the sea_.' So he does, but he's not content."

Assumpta couldn't take her eyes of him. Her heart was breaking as she struggled to understand what he was trying to say to her.

Peter continued with his tale, willing her to grasp the meaning of his analogy.

"So he jumps out and this time he runs up to his dad and says, '_Dad am I really a polar bear_?' He says, '_What are you talking about? Of course you're a polar bear - you've got white fur, you eat fish, you're a polar bear_.' He says, '_Why do you ask_?' And the baby bear says '_Because I'm freezing_……'"

For several seconds, Assumpta was unable to speak; terrified that she couldn't heal Peter's pain. She knew exactly what he meant. His agonies were the same as hers - he was lonely, believed he was different from everyone else and felt trapped in a situation he thought he could never get out of.

Peter's face fell. He began to chew his bottom lip, agitated at Assumpta's silence which he mistook for her inability to comprehend what he had said. He stepped forward, as near as he dare and looked at her directly in the eye.

"Why am I always thinking of you?" he uttered, his voice barely audible as he tried desperately to curb the tears that were building up in his eyes.

Assumpta stared at him, completely stunned by what he had just said. Peter's words were echoing over and over in her head. Did Peter love her as much as she loved him? All she knew for sure was that this gentle giant of a man was now stood before her, completely and utterly broken. There was only one thing she could do - she had to comfort him. Assumpta exhaled deeply then opened her arms to him.

"Peter, come here," she whispered lovingly.


	4. Chapter 4 Broken Vows

**Chapter 4 – Broken Vows**

There was no hesitation. Peter rested his head on Assumpta's right shoulder and unable to hold back his tears any longer, began to weep uncontrollably.

Tentatively, Assumpta began to gently stroke Peter's soft, short brown hair with her right hand. As she felt his shoulders relax and his breathing slow, she instinctively wrapped her left arm around his broad back and pulled him closer, lightly stroking the curve of his upper spine to further comfort him. The man she adored was now closer to her than he'd ever been. Assumpta found his smell intoxicating – a mixture of soap, shampoo, aftershave and an unmistakable masculine scent that she knew was naturally him. Her shoulder was wet with his tears and his breath felt comfortably warm on her neck. They stayed in this same position for several minutes and she'd never felt more content. Without warning, Assumpta felt Peter's warm lips brush lightly against the side of her neck. An accident surely as he repositioned himself? Her body began to tingle with excitement and she inadvertently let out a gentle sigh.

All Peter's pain began to ebb away from his body, the tension relieved by his revelation, his crying and most of all, by Assumpta's soothing hands. She smelt so reassuringly good, a combination of the fragrance of the roses his mother had tended lovingly in her garden and the perfume of newly-split vanilla pods. Her skin felt silky against his face and he was overcome by an intense desire to kiss her neck. Peter loved Assumpta so much, how could it be so wrong? The first time, his lips barely made contact. Encouraged by her soft moan, he continued to kiss her neck, delicately at first and then, as she responded, with more passion.

Peter was really kissing her neck! Assumpta had dreamed about this moment so many times, but she hadn't known it would be like this - it felt so good, a thousand times better than she'd ever imagined and oh so right. She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the senses that were overtaking every cell in her body, and absorbed every kiss without question. Just seconds later, Peter momentarily repositioned his head away from her neck and the 'spell' was instantly broken. Assumpta's head was racing as common sense took over from desire. Peter was a priest, for God's sake. Even though she didn't believe, he did, Peter was completely devoted to his vocation and she had to stop him. They'd already crossed one boundary that they shouldn't have. Assumpta began to open her mouth to protest, but was stopped in her tracks by Peter's lips covering hers.

All thoughts of his vows vanished immediately as Assumpta reacted positively to his touch. Peter pressed his lips lightly to hers. She responded with equal measure, so he began to kiss her more fervently, whilst running his hands through her soft, dark red hair. He parted her lips with his tongue and tasted inside her mouth for the first time. Her breath tasted sweet, like golden honey. With each new sensation, Peter could feel his body becoming more alive, awakening sensations he hadn't experienced since entering the seminary ten years ago. Only one thought echoed round his head. - he wanted Assumpta more than he wanted anything else.

Assumpta was defenceless once more - this man of God had bewitched her! She couldn't halt the intensity of her emotions - her heart and body were overpowering the thoughts in her head that were telling her what was happening was wrong. His kisses were so sensual and his touch evoked more pleasure in her than any other man's ever had. Peter's left hand had moved under her t-shirt and began gently caressing her left nipple through the lace of her bra, sending shivers of delight all over her body. Assumpta reached up to his neck, her hands trembling nervously with anticipation, as she began to unbutton his shirt. She met no resistance and soon he was stood before her, bare-chested. She smiled at him appreciatively before tracing the tips of her fingers up and down his taut pectoral muscles, lingering just for a moment to stroke the soft, sparse hairs which lay between them. Assumpta couldn't remember him removing her royal blue cardigan and white t-shirt. She did, however, recall how deftly he removed her bra before bending down to plant numerous tiny kisses all over her small, firm breasts.

Peter peeled off Assumpta's remaining clothes and lifted her tenderly off the work surface. He gazed adoringly at her naked form - she was so incredibly beautiful. He couldn't believe that for once, he wasn't dreaming. He needed to feel Assumpta's bare skin against his and pulled her as close to him as he possibly could. Peter began to kiss her passionately on the lips once again and this, coupled with the softness of her skin, triggered the responses he had successfully repressed since his ordination. Ever fibre in his body exploded with pleasure, resulting in the most natural of reactions.

Assumpta could now feel how much Peter wanted her and she felt totally exhilarated at this thought. She fumbled with his belt, unzipped his jeans and removed his boxer shorts quickly and without any protest. Assumpta gasped in awe as she saw him unclothed for the very first time.

There was no need for any more foreplay - theirs had lasted for at least three years. Neither Assumpta nor Peter was in any doubt that the other wanted them. He guided her gently back so she was lying partially on the kitchen table, both still maintaining the silence that had ensued from the minute she had first held him. She lay there ready for him. Peter began to make love to Assumpta and as he did she began to speak softly to him, incoherently at first, as the pleasure he gave her engulfed her whole body. After a short while, Peter became aware of what she was saying. Tears of joy were running down her cheeks as she called out his name and told him over and over that she loved him. Peter couldn't hold back any longer.

"I love you, too, Assumpta," he murmured as he finally remembered how it felt to be a man and not just a priest.


	5. Chapter 5 Reality

**Chapter 5 – Reality **

Afterwards, they lay still entwined for several minutes, perched precariously on top of the Egan's kitchen table. Neither of them spoke as each observed the other closely, breathing in the moment and hardly believing what had just happened. Eventually, Assumpta broke the silence.

"Isn't this the part when you're supposed to roll over and fall asleep?" she asked, a twinkle evident in her eye."

Peter grinned, "Well normally I would, but if I roll over now I'm going to drop of the table and land in a heap on the floor!"

Assumpta laughed, her chocolate brown eyes sparkling at the thought of his 6ft 2in frame sprawled all over the tiny kitchen floor.

Peter unwrapped his arms from around Assumpta's neck, pulled himself up and planted a chaste kiss on the end of her nose. He stared at her for several seconds, taking in every detail of her unclothed body – noting the size and position of every mole and scar and committing them to his memory.

"Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?" he whispered, tracing his long fingers lightly down the curve of her hip.

Assumpta sat up, blushing furiously at his compliment.

"Oh, thousands of men," she smiled, playfully teasing him. Her voice became quieter as she continued coyly, "No….only you."

Peter kissed her gently on the lips, "Do you know I could watch you sitting there naked all day?"

"And you a _priest_…………………………." she blurted out, without thinking.

Assumpta's heart leapt into her mouth as she realized what she had just said. Minutes earlier, her and Peter had been blissfully happy, both of them purposefully avoiding the impossible state of affairs they were in. In a split second, she had opened Pandora's box and there was no going back.

"Assumpta?"

There was panic in Peter's voice as he spoke.

"Peter, I'm sorry……….." she replied unsure of how to make it right again.

The sound of a six month old baby crying came as a welcome relief to them both.

"I'll go," he said, quickly pulling on his boxer shorts and shirt, "I'll be down as soon as I can."

Assumpta watched Peter disappear upstairs. Her heart was beating rapidly as she began to contemplate the reality of the situation her and Peter were in – she was a married woman, he had been, up until an hour or so ago, a devout Roman Catholic curate. Assumpta had no choice - she had to end this relationship now, even though every cell in her body told her otherwise, and allow Peter to continue in the calling that meant so much to him. She dressed quickly, tiptoed back up the stairs to the hall and grabbed her jacket from the coat-stand. As quietly as she could, she opened the door of the Gard house and vanished into the dusk without saying a final goodbye.


	6. Chapter 6 Guilt

**Chapter 6 – Guilt **

Kieran had only been dreaming. Peter re-arranged the bedclothes in his cot then stroked the baby's tiny head as he lulled him to back to sleep with a song about horses that his mother had sung to him as a child. All his parishioners agreed that he was a 'natural' with children - Niamh herself had been astounded at how only 'Uncle' Peter was able to soothe Kieran during his colicky phase. Although Peter's crisis of faith was predominantly about his love for Assumpta, his relationship with the Egan's son had made him seriously question whether he could live a life without children of his own.

Once Kieran was settled, Peter knew that finally it was time for him and Assumpta to be completely honest with each other. They needed to talk seriously about their future. For him there was only one outcome – he intended to give up his vocation, regardless of whether Assumpta wanted to be with him or not, though he hoped and prayed she would choose to be with him. Peter had broken his vows and, if he was honest, he didn't feel that guilty. What had just happened between him and Assumpta had felt so right. For the first time ever in his life he felt complete. He knew he could no longer live a lie.

As he descended the stairs, Peter mulled over some of the likely issues in his head. It wouldn't be easy - telling his 'boss' and adversary, Father Macanally, was probably going to be one of the least painful parts; finding acceptance in the small Irish community he now called home would be one of the most difficult.

As he entered the kitchen, Peter immediately noticed that Assumpta's clothes were no longer strewn over the floor. He assumed she gone to the bathroom to freshen up or outside to get a breath of fresh air.

"Assumpta?" he called.

There was no answer. Peter searched the rest of the house and the yard, but there was no sign of her. He felt a gnawing emptiness in the pit of his stomach. Assumpta had gone and he didn't understand why.

-o-

Brendan, Padraig and Siobhan were propping up 'their' end of the bar in Fitzgerald's as usual. Brendan was cradling his beloved pint of stout as Padraig and Siobhan were arguing about which horse they thought would win this year's Irish Grand National. The door swung open and Assumpta entered, her face contorted by the anguish she was experiencing. Unusually, she made no attempt to speak to any of her punters and hurried, without making eye contact, straight into the kitchen. Brendan, Padraig and Siobhan sat completely bemused by what they had just witnessed as the door slammed firmly shut.

It was Brendan who made the first move. Although a confirmed batchelor in his mid-fifties, he'd always been like a surrogate father to Assumpta. He knew something was terribly wrong. This wasn't how Assumpta normally behaved when she was upset - she usually masked her problems with a fiery outburst. Brendan opened the door and lingered surreptitiously outside, not daring to enter her space.

"Assumpta? Are you alright?" he asked tentatively in his soft Dublin drawl.

In the semi-darkness, Brendan could just make out that Assumpta was crying.

"I'm fine," she replied, her pain echoing from her unusually subdued voice

Brendan observed her powerlessly for several seconds – she appeared to be extremely distressed.

"Only if there is any thing I can do?" he continued, his voice full of genuine concern.

Assumpta's reply was mono-syllabic and flat, yet it was enough to convey to Brendan the fact she wanted to be left alone.

"Right."

"Okay," Brendan uttered gently, before shutting the door to give Assumpta the isolation she had requested.

-o-

He held the receiver awkwardly between his shoulder and ear as he paced anxiously up and down. The phone continued to ring monotonously. Where was Assumpta? After several minutes, a familiar voice picked it up.

"Fitzgerald's Bar. Brendan Kearney speaking."

Peter was confused and fearful. Why was Brendan answering the phone and not Assumpta? On hearing Brendan's brogue, he lost his nerve and put the handset down without uttering a single word.

-o-

The rest of the evening dragged very slowly for Peter Clifford. He needed to talk to Assumpta urgently – to find out what had gone wrong and to try and put it right, but she wasn't answering the phone and he had no choice but to stay with Kieran until Niamh and Ambrose returned. As the baby was sleeping peacefully now, Peter tried to occupy himself by making his entry for the Food Fair, but his heart wasn't really in it and the end result was extremely lacklustre.

The Egan's returned just as he was finishing tidying up. A strong smell of bleach lingered in the kitchen's air. Peter's face flushed furiously when Niamh asked him innocently if he'd had a good evening. Peter knew that Assumpta's straight-laced friend would be completely mortified if she knew that he, a Roman Catholic curate, had made love with her married best friend right here in this very kitchen! An awkward silence ensued momentarily as Peter tried to compose himself.

"Do you fancy a nightcap, Father?" Ambrose asked oblivious to Peter's embarrassment.

The mantle clock showed it was not quite 11.20 p.m. Peter needed to see Assumpta but there was no point going over to the Pub until all her customers had left. A small tot of Irish Whiskey would pass a bit of time whilst steadying his already frayed nerves at the same time.

"I think I just might partake in a drop of your finest," Peter replied, smiling at Ambrose for unknowingly coming to his rescue.


	7. Chapter 7 Truth & Consequences

**Chapter 7 – Truth & Consequences**

Fitzgerald's Bar was plunged into darkness as the last three punters (Brendan, Siobhan and Padraig) eventually vacated their favourite haunt and stumbled the short distances to their individual homes. Padraig's voice could still be heard clearly several minutes after his outline disappeared into the darkness.

Over in the Gard House, Father Clifford had been watching the public house out of the corner of his eye for the last quarter of an hour or so, waiting for the moment when it would be 'safe' to go over. Five minutes after seeing the lights go out, he bid goodnight to the Egan's and crossed the road surreptitiously; hoping no-one would see him entering the building 'after hours'.

The heavy blue door creaked slightly as Peter pushed it, unsure of whether the publican would have locked it or not by now. Thankfully it opened! As his eyes adjusted to the lack of light in the bar, he could just make out Assumpta's seated form through the frosted glass in the door to the kitchen. Peter made his way cautiously over to the bar area, trying to avoid walking into randomly placed tables and stools. When he reached his destination, he was suddenly overcome by an overwhelming feeling of reticence. Assumpta had left in such a hurry - he had absolutely no idea how she would react when she saw him.

Peter's hands were perspiring profusely as he turned the brass door knob. He opened the door slightly. Through the small gap, he could see Assumpta sitting motionlessly in her rocking chair, staring at the far wall. She was oblivious to his presence.

"Assumpta?" he whispered softly.

Startled by the intrusion, she turned quickly to look at him. Even in the dim fire-light, Peter could see that her cheeks were heavily tear-stained. She looked so vulnerable, as if she might break. Peter instinctively wanted to take Assumpta in his arms, to tell her it would all be alright, but something stopped him. He remained where he was, the kitchen door acting as his security blanket.

"Peter," she uttered, her heart quickening its pace at the sound of his voice.

Assumpta lowered her eyes again to avoid his gaze.

Neither of them spoke for several seconds; both of them were terrified of the consequences of anything that would be said. Eventually Peter broke the uncomfortable silence.

"Why did you leave? I thought….."

Assumpta interrupted him abruptly. She was afraid Peter would say something that would change her mind. For nearly two hours, she had agonized over the hopelessness of the situation they were in. She knew in her heart that Peter was the love of her life, her soul-mate, but they could never be together as a proper couple because of his vocation. She had rehearsed over and over in her head what she would say to him but now he was here, in the flesh, it wasn't so easy. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes as she forced out the words.

"What we did was wrong, Peter. You're a priest, a devout one at that, and I'm a married woman. It must never happen again."

Peter moved purposely towards her. He didn't want to give her up. He had to make her see reason. He knelt awkwardly besides Assumpta and took her hands in his.

"Assumpta, all I know for sure at this moment in time is that I love you and I know that you love me," he declared, pleading with her with his penetrating green eyes.

Assumpta's heart lurched as Peter acknowledged his feelings. Every bone in her body wanted him desperately. It would be so easy to give in - to taste his lips against hers, to feel his long, gentle fingers caressing her intimately, to make love with him again. She had to be strong, not for her, but for him.

"I can't be your mistress, Peter," she continued, "I may be a lapsed Catholic, but even I know it isn't right."

"Mistress?" Peter asked confused. The thought hadn't ever crossed his mind.

"Why do you think I want you to be my mistress?"

Assumpta looked at him, her face gradually flushing with embarrassment.

"Jenny….." she eventually admitted, "…and the fact you obviously weren't a…..err, you know…a virgin."

Peter inadvertently laughed at Assumpta's naivety. She glared at him in return - he was making fun of her now.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to laugh," he continued, "I left Manchester to get away from Jenny. She had a huge crush on me, wouldn't leave me alone. I didn't have any feelings for her but was concerned that her persistence would eventually pay-off! As for me not being a virgin - I didn't enter the seminary until I was twenty one. Before that, I was pretty popular with the girls, both at college and at Uni, if you know what I mean?"

Peter winked at Assumpta to lighten the atmosphere. He raised his right hand and cupped her cheek before looking at her directly in the eye.

"I don't want you to be my mistress. I want you to be my wife!"

Assumpta stared at him, open-mouthed. Had she really just heard the curate ask her to marry him?

"Tonight has made me realize how much I love you and that I can't live without you any longer. Tomorrow I'm going to see Father Macanally, to hand in my resignation."

Tears of happiness began to flow freely down her face as Assumpta leant into him, her kiss telling Peter everything he needed to know.


	8. Chapter 8 Confessions

**Chapter 8 – Confessions**

Peter smiled to himself as he watched Assumpta walking towards Hendley's store. They'd woken later than planned, their limbs still entwined from the previous night's lovemaking. He'd got just half an hour to get back to St. Joseph's, get changed and get ready for morning Mass. The problem was he had to leave Fitzgerald's without being seen by the ever-prying eyes of the prudish shopkeeper. God help them both if Kathleen learnt of their relationship before it was official – unbeknown to them, it was she who had thwarted the affair between Father Frank Macanally and Eileen Macguire, twenty or so years ago.

As they dressed, Assumpta and Peter had plotted his 'escape' plan – she would distract Miss Hendley by asking for some 'crucial' provision that wouldn't be stocked in the main shop; he would wait down by the basement door until the coast was clear. Peter laughed as he saw a flustered Kathleen disappear into the stockroom. He seized his opportunity and slipped away from Fitzgerald's cellar completely unnoticed by anyone in the small village of Ballykissangel.

-o-

Safely back in the Sacristy, Peter quickly changed into his black suit and vestments. He hadn't had time to wash and as he removed his clothes a faint scent of roses and vanilla emanated from his bare chest, reminding him of the sensation of Assumpta's naked body against his. He silently prayed that none of his parishioners would notice the perfume.

-o-

There were only four people in the congregation (including Kathleen Hendley) - the usual 'die-hards' who attended whatever the day and regardless of the weather. Peter felt guilty administering the sacrament of communion to them knowing full well he had broken at least one of his vows. He would speak to Father Mac straight after Mass – hopefully he would be released from his clerical duties with immediate effect. In spite of his need to leave the priesthood, his faith was still important to him. He couldn't bear to denigrate his Roman Catholic beliefs with hypocrisy.

-o-

The study in the Presbytery in Cilldargan reminded the curate of his old headmaster's office. He'd spent many hours as a teenager in that room receiving the ferula for the misdemeanors he'd committed at school. The emotions he was going through now were not that far removed from those he experienced then: fear and trepidation.

"What can I do for you, Father Clifford?" Frank Macanally enquired as he ushered Peter to his seat, "It sounded urgent on the phone."

The older priest observed his curate as he sat down on the battered leather armchair. He looked tired, as if the troubles of the world were weighing heavily on his shoulders. He could also clearly see that the younger man was struggling to vocalise whatever it was that he wanted to say.

"Remember the first time we met?" the Parish Priest asked, quickly changing the subject to allow his curate to compose himself, "I told you something about your predecessor."

Peter smiled to himself as he paraphrased their first conversation, three years ago, "_He only came for the suit._"

(His superior never revealed the reason for the previous curate's short-lived stay in Ballykissangel!)

Father Mac continued, "No-one could ever say that about you. That's not a fashion statement, Father. You're a good priest. People tell me and they can't all be wrong. You're not my kind of priest, but then there aren't many of my kind left."

The Parish Priest's sympathetic tone and unprecedented praise left Father Clifford flabbergasted. He was more used to Father Mac being openly adversarial. Peter regarded his superior with scepticism as he watched him clasp his hands tightly across his stomach. The elder priest looked his sub-ordinate directly in the eyes before asking the loaded question.

"What are you going to do, Peter?"

The question was forthright and direct, yet in its delivery it was full of implication. It was as if Frank Macanally already knew why Peter was in his study.

"I'm…err…not sure what you mean, Father," the curate replied unconvincingly.

Peter shifted awkwardly in his seat. He'd never been good at lying!

The older man's face reddened as he began to lose patience with his curate - Father Clifford had specifically requested this meeting yet he was being annoyingly reticent about revealing his problem. A Parish Priest's time was too valuable; he would have to force the issue.

He persisted, an accusatory tone in his voice, "I have eyes, Father. I have instincts. I know a crisis when I see one."

Peter nodded as he acknowledged his superior's accurate perception. He waited a couple of seconds, contemplating the wording of his reply, and took a deep breath.

"I want to leave the priesthood."

Father Macanally did not respond straight away. In spite of his modern ways, Peter had always seemed to be devoted to his calling. Was it possible that the suspicions he had harboured about his curate and the publican since the rehearsal of 'Ryan's Mother' were accurate after all? He decided to be provocative in his reply.

"And the reason for your decision?" he asked rhetorically.

The older man paused for a split second before adding, "Mrs McGarvey, perhaps?"

The use of Assumpta's estranged husband's surname was a deliberate ploy by the Parish Priest to highlight her marital status.

Peter Clifford stared wide-eyed at his superior, stunned by the continued precision of his senior's insight. How could Father Mac have known about their mutual emotions when neither he nor Assumpta had been really aware?

"Partly," Peter replied honestly, "I've tried so hard, for nearly three years, to suppress my feelings for Assumpta. I thought going on retreat, two months ago, would help me to re-focus on my vocation. But it didn't - all I could think about during my meditations was her."

The older priest continued his questioning, "Is Mrs McGarvey aware of how you feel? Have you acted on your…err…passions?"

Father Clifford gazed uncomfortably at his hands as his face began to flush with embarrassment. He had hoped Father Macanally wouldn't ask about his vows. He'd have preferred to have made his confession to someone else. Anyone else!

The reply he gave was succinct but truthful. He wasn't prepared to discuss this side of his relationship with Assumpta in any detail.

"Yes, we have Father. Last night. It wasn't planned. It just happened….."

Yet again, to the curate's surprise, Frank Macanally's response wasn't the sarcastic or condemnatory comment he was used to. In addition, Peter was almost certain that the look that crossed his superior's face at that very moment was one of sincere empathy.

"Well Peter, you certainly aren't the first priest and you definitely won't be the last to break his vow of chastity."

The flippancy of Father Mac's last retort brought Peter a welcome feeling of relief. Sensing his 'ordeal' was nearly over, Peter Clifford asked one final but very important question.

"So what happens now, Father?"

Father Mac rose up from his chair, stretched his legs, and walked to the opposite side of the desk, where his assistant was sitting.

"Well Father Clifford that depends entirely on you. If you are certain you want to leave the priesthood, I will arrange an urgent appointment with Bishop O'Brien, who will explain the conditions of your resignation and advise you on the process of Laicisation. If not, you have two choices: immediate re-location to another parish and cessation of all communications with Mrs McGarvey …"

Frank Macanally took a deep breath and composed himself before continuing in hushed tones, "or alternatively you can continue your relationship in secret. I, of course, cannot condone the latter."

Although his superior's latest statement had knocked him for six, Peter knew it had no bearing on his personal circumstances. He had absolutely no doubt about the decision he had made last night.

"I'm one hundred percent certain that I must leave the priesthood, Father. I love Assumpta Fitzgerald more than anything else in the world and she loves me. I want to marry her as soon as we are both free to do so."

His curate's heartfelt declaration of love stopped Father Mac abruptly in his tracks. Scanning Peter's face, it was obvious to him now how deep the younger man's feelings for the village's publican were.

In spite of their differences, Father Macanally admired Peter Clifford's bravery. Leaving the church wouldn't be an easy option – Canon Law made it difficult for ordained priests to return to Laity; small Irish communities were notoriously judgmental and intolerant of such scandals. It was a decision that he hadn't had the courage to undertake when he'd embarked on a love affair with Eileen Maguire twenty two years ago. A decision he now bitterly regretted. Just two weeks ago, her daughter Nainsi had arrived unannounced in Ballykissangel, awakening emotions that he thought were long forgotten. She was the 'spit and image' of her mother, though Kathleen Hendley could clearly see her father too. His choice back in 1976 meant that Frank Macanally would never be able to tell his daughter that he loved her. He would do everything in his power to ensure that Peter Clifford wouldn't suffer the same fate.


	9. Chapter 9 Friends

**Chapter 9 – Friends**

Brendan had telephoned Niamh early that morning, urging her to go over to Fitzgerald's as soon as possible. He was extremely concerned about Assumpta's frame of mind. Last night she had been uncharacteristically down, no he changed the word he used - depressed. In twenty seven years, he'd never _ever _seen her that way. He'd attempted to try to get her to open up but she'd made it very clear she didn't want to speak to him, to anyone. He was worried that she might do something….

The scene that met Niamh's eyes was far removed from the one she was expecting. Boyzone's '_No matter what_' blared from the radio, accompanied by Assumpta's even louder singing. She was dancing manically around the bar, wiping tables and picking up stray glasses as she passed, a huge grin across her face.

"Assumpta!" Niamh exclaimed, partially with shock, partly with relief.

"Hi, Niamh," the publican replied, greeting her best friend warmly, "How come you're here so early? Your shift doesn't start for another hour."

Still standing by the door, Niamh shook her head in disbelief as she tried to explain her premature presence to her best friend.

"Brendan 'phoned me. He was really concerned about you. Said you were really upset last night. I was worried…."

Assumpta laughed awkwardly, embarrassed by the memory of the previous evening. Her night with Peter had erased all recollection of two hours she had spent sobbing her heart out. She shuddered as she remembered the deep pain she had felt when she had convinced herself that her and Peter could never be together. Assumpta felt guilty now - poor Brendan, he'd always looked out for her. She must have been in a bad way for him to ring Niamh.

"Err…it was nothing really, just a misunderstanding. It's fine now," she lied, trying to appear nonchalant.

Assumpta walked over to the bar, deliberately avoiding her friend's penetrating gaze. She hoped against hope that she wouldn't have to explain herself. As much as she loved Niamh, Assumpta knew she would be extremely shocked to learn that her and Peter were no longer just friends. In any case, she wanted their liaison to remain secret until Peter was officially released from the priesthood - he was an honorable man and wouldn't want anyone to perceive their relationship as being anything other than above board.

"Coffee?" she asked desperately trying to change the subject and lighten the mood.

Assumpta poured some water and freshly ground peaberry into the Gaggia machine before switching it on. Niamh followed her and watched her quizzically from the opposing side of the bar.

"Who was it that upset you?" Niamh persisted.

Niamh was terrier-like when she got started. She was in no doubt that Brendan hadn't exaggerated what he had witnessed the previous evening. During all the twenty years of their friendship, Niamh had never seen Assumpta depressed, even when her parent's died. She definitely wasn't going to let this one go. Whoever it was that had upset Assumpta must have been someone very special, somebody she had very deep feelings for. Niamh's eyes widened as the penny appeared to drop.

"It's Leo, isn't it? He wants to make another go of it?" she asked, a note of hope in her voice.

"No, Niamh, it isn't!" Assumpta replied emphatically, an exasperated sigh escaping from her lips "It's sorted. Can you let it drop please?"

"But I'm your best friend. You should confide in me," replied Niamh, a very hurt look covering her face as she spoke.

"I will, Niamh. I promise, _when_ the time is right."

-o-

The lunchtime rush was in full flow. Siobhan, Padraig and Brendan were installed in their usual positions in Fitzgerald's enjoying the home-cooked Irish stew that was today's special. Brendan, who was relaxing after a taxing morning in the village school, was relieved to see his surrogate daughter back on form, though he couldn't help notice that she seemed to be watching the main door like a hawk. Every time it opened, she immediately stopped what she was doing to observe who had walked in and so far each customer had been greeted with a look of disappointment.

"Are you ready for tonight then, Assumpta?" Siobhan asked, absent-mindedly stirring her orange juice with her little finger.

Tonight was the Chinese Food Fair and everyone in the village had an entry. The money raised from selling the fare was going to help fund an M.R.I. scanner at the community hospital in Cilldargan. A small silver cup was the coveted prize for the best submission.

"I will be when I've got rid of you lot!" Assumpta replied in her usual acerbic tones.

The front door swung open once again. This time, Assumpta's face broke into a beaming smile. Watching furtively from his spot by the bar, Brendan turned to see who it was that warranted such a radiant welcome. He was only partially surprised to see the village curate, who was returning the compliment whole-heartedly.

Brendan chuckled to himself. It was so obvious to him (and the dogs in the street) that the Publican and the Priest were in love with each other. He wasn't sure though, that they actually knew themselves! Assumpta deserved to be happy. Trouble was she always seemed to want what she couldn't have. If only Peter Clifford wasn't a Roman Catholic cleric. They were perfect for each other.

"Can I get you a drink, Father?" the schoolmaster asked in his lilting brogue.

"Thanks Brendan, as long as it's not a pint of the 'black stuff', Peter replied jokingly, "Three years and I still haven't worked out what you see in it yet!"

The curate sat chatting to his three friends for several minutes, discussing the relative merits (and drawbacks!) of every one of their entries for the Food Fair. Padraig was adamant his stir-fried beef and vegetable pie Szechuan style (with stout!) was the winning entry. The conversation was rudely interrupted by the lights in the pub flickering on and off before eventually plunging the bar into darkness. It was the third time this had happened in the space of an hour.

"Assumpta! For God's sake, get it sorted!" Brendan exclaimed in mock exasperation.

Brendan turned to Peter and asked, "Father, do you know your way around a fuse box?"

Peter nodded. His father, an engineer, had taught him the rudimentary skills of home maintenance, from a very early age. The image of the red, plastic handled screwdriver, from his first ever Meccano set (when he was eight), suddenly flashed through his mind.

The schoolteacher continued in a tone normally reserved for the classroom, "Well, go and give her a hand."

As his two friends descended into the cellar, Brendan tried to suppress a smile, he'd been well aware from their body language that each of them was desperate to talk to the other. Down in the cellar, away from prying eyes, Peter took hold of Assumpta by the waist and drew her close.

"I love you" he whispered, gazing adoringly into her chocolate-brown eyes.

Assumpta glanced at his Roman Collar before replying, "Would you take that thing off before you say things like that!"

Peter's priest 'uniform' was an uncomfortable reminder to both of them that, in spite of everything that had happened, he was still married to the church. She watched as he quickly removed the small, offending piece of plastic and slid it in his pocket. A moment later, he leaned in towards her until their faces were just millimetres apart.

"I've missed you" he continued as his long, slender fingers unconsciously caressed Assumpta's deep auburn hair.

Their lips met and they kissed passionately for several seconds before their loving embrace was disturbed by an enquiring voice from up in the bar.

"Need any help?"

"No, err…its fine," Assumpta shouted back up, a trace of embarrassment evident in her voice. Peter quickly fiddled with the fuses and the lights came back on. A loud cheer echoed round the bar.

"I think Noah had more advanced electrics on the Ark!" he joked, "Seriously Assumpta, you need to get these replaced as soon as possible. This is an accident waiting to happen!"

Assumpta stared at the floor.

"But I don't have the money…" she replied quietly.

"Hey," Peter continued cupping Assumpta's cheek reassuringly with his right hand, "Don't worry about that now, we'll work something out. Anyway we need to talk, in private, about what happened with Father Mac this morning. As soon as you are finished here, come over to the cottage."

Assumpta smiled and nodded in reply. No-one else had ever made her feel so safe and secure as Peter did. She instinctively knew that if he said everything would be okay, it would be.

-o-

Back in the bar, Peter brushed a cobweb away from his hair that he'd acquired from the low cellar ceiling. Niamh was standing by the bar, his favourite parishioner having just awoken only moments ago, in her arms. He affectionately took the small boy from his mother and planted a tender kiss on his head. Niamh couldn't stop herself yawning loudly. At six months, Kieran still wasn't sleeping through the night.

"Hey little man, been giving you mum and dad a hard time again?" the curate said looking at Niamh sympathetically, "Anytime you need a babysitter you know where I am. I really enjoyed it last night."

By now a knowing grin had spread across Brendan Kearney's face. Peter had been babysitting the Egan's son last night - hadn't Assumpta said she was going over to babysit Kieran, too? Peter must have been the cause of her turmoil! Something serious must have happened between them over in the Gard House. Well, thankfully, whatever it was no longer appeared to be a problem. In fact, Brendan had never seen either of them looking as happy as they did at this present moment.

-o-

It was nearly two o'clock before all of Fitzgerald's lunchtime customers had gone back to work or home. Assumpta had tidied up most of the debris they had left behind. She was just about to lock the front door when Father Macanally entered the premises uninvited.

"Mrs McGarvey?" he stated sternly.

"Father?" she replied equally tersely, irked by his use of her married name.

"We need to talk?" he continued, maintaining his usual air of disdain.

Assumpta did not want any confrontation with the Parish Priest at this moment in time. She was tired and just wanted to go over to see Peter. However, it was inevitable there would be a spat whenever the publican and the Parish Priest spoke. They were poles apart in their beliefs – he was an old-fashioned priest used to being treated reverentially by everyone, regardless of whether he deserved it or not; she had no respect for him or his version of Catholicism and openly flouted her religious upbringing.

"I've got nothing to say," she replied defensively, cutting her adversary stone dead.

Assumpta immediately faced away from the priest and began cleaning tables she had already cleared. With some luck, he'd get the message and would leave. Father Mac stood his ground but shuffled awkwardly on the spot, wringing his hands nervously as he did. He had to have this conversation with Assumpta before he spoke to the bishop. He coughed, primarily to clear his throat but also to regain the publican's attention.

"Assumpta," Father Mac continued, his voice softening as he did, "I haven't come to fight, I've come to talk to you about Peter."

Without facing him, Assumpta put down her cloth and grasped the edge of the table to steady herself. She could feel her face begin to flush as the vitriol rose in her throat. Her mind went into overdrive wondering what the priest was going to say. What had happened between her and Peter was personal. It wasn't anyone else's business other than theirs. Her heart began to race – Had Father Mac come to ask her to leave Peter alone, to persuade her to go away, to go back to Leo, so that he could carry on with his vocation? How dare he! She gave herself a couple of seconds to regain her composure before rotating to face him again. She wasn't going to give this interfering old hypocrite the pleasure of seeing that he had riled her.

The publican turned slowly and opened her mouth to speak. Before she'd uttered a single word, Father Mac interrupted her, taking the wind out of her sails.

"Do you love him?"

Assumpta stared at Father Macanally, floored by the directness of the question. She swallowed hard before replying.

"What do you think?" she retorted caustically, "Of course, I do!"

Peter Clifford was the love of her life, her soul-mate. She needed to make sure Frank Macanally knew just how much she loved him. To leave him in absolutely no doubt of her feelings. Once she had started, Assumpta couldn't stop herself.

"For nearly three years I have tried unsuccessfully to suppress my feelings for Peter. I may be a non-believer, Father, but even I know a relationship between a priest and any woman is wrong. At first I thought it was a crush, but as time passed, I knew it was much deeper than that. When Peter went on retreat, he broke my heart, but I had to respect his wishes. That's what you do when you love someone – you set them free. Confused by the strength of my emotions, I married Leo on the re-bound, possibly trying to punish Peter for choosing the church over me. I was hoping Leo and I could re-kindle the relationship we'd had at Uni and allow me to eventually forget Peter. It worked for a while, in London. Unfortunately, the moment Peter set foot in Fitzgerald's, on the first day we returned home, I knew immediately I'd made a big mistake. From then on, Leo couldn't do anything right. He just couldn't compete with Peter. When he left, it was as if a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I'm not proud, Father, I hurt a good man."

Father Macanally was shocked by the depth of Assumpta's emotions. He was used to the hard-faced publican, sarcastic and acerbic, not a vulnerable young woman, brutally honest with tears welling in her eyes.

Assumpta continued, "I knew Peter cared for me, Father, but I thought it was as a friend. I was prepared to put my sentiments aside to keep his friendship. I couldn't bear the thought of losing him completely. It was only last night that I found out that he loved me, too, that our feelings were mutual. And you know what? I still tried to convince him to remain a priest."

The Parish Priest stood overwhelmed by Assumpta's confession. The intensity of her feelings coupled with those he'd heard from Peter Clifford in the Presbytery that morning, reminded him of how he and Eileen had felt twenty or so years ago. Then he had made the wrong decision. Frank Macanally wasn't going to make the same mistake again.

"I'm sorry Assumpta," he uttered, "I had to be certain. And now I am."

Assumpta stood open-mouthed as the Parish Priest, for whom displays of empathy were as rare as black diamonds, took hold of Assumpta's hand and looked her directly in the eyes.

"I won't stand in your way. I wish you both all the luck in the world – you'll need it!"


	10. Chapter 10 Gifts & Proposals

**Chapter 10 – Gifts & Proposals**

The cottage was a lot smaller inside than she had imagined, much too diminutive for a man who was 6ft 2inches tall! The furniture had seen better days and the walls were in desperate need of a lick of paint. Assumpta sat perched on the edge of a battered green armchair in the front room whilst Peter made them both a cup of tea in the tiny kitchen next door. She'd stood on the threshold of his home many times (mainly to argue with him!) but had never been inside, until now. The whole of their 'relationship' had been conducted in and around Fitzgerald's.

As he entered the room, unconsciously ducking down to avoid the low door lintel, Assumpta felt a familiar quickening in her stomach. She couldn't help it, he looked so handsome. She smiled to herself as she noticed one or two chest hairs peeping over the edge of the open neck of his black shirt. She'd been fascinated by them as she'd lain in his arms after they had made love last night, toying with them with her fingers. There were just a dozen or so on his otherwise hairless chest.

Peter handed Assumpta a mug of hot tea before sitting down on an equally shabby chair opposite her.

"Tea, the Englishman's answer to everything!" she teased as she took the beaker from him.

They sat in silence for a minute or so, sipping their drinks, neither of them sure what to say. Eventually Assumpta spoke.

"Well, what did Father Mac say?"

Peter recounted what had happened in the Presbytery that morning. Assumpta wasn't too surprised as he recalled how Frank Macanally had been atypically empathetic to his request.

"He visited me, too. Just before I came here," Assumpta told Peter, "There was none of his usual supercilious comments. It was as if he was trying to make sure I was 100% committed to you, as if he was trying to protect you. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought he had some personal understanding of our situation."

Peter smiled knowingly to himself. He suspected his superior had more than a perception of their circumstance - his strange behaviour around Nainsi Maguire; his gift to her of a framed newspaper cutting (a photograph including him and her mother), and, of course, Kathleen Hendley's sporadic confession about '_standing between two people who were in love, a long time ago_'. Had the older priest been involved in a love affair twenty or so years ago?

"I think you could be right," Peter replied as he took the empty mug from Assumpta. He disappeared into the kitchen, aware he may have said too much. Seconds later, she heard him open a cupboard followed by the rustling and shuffling of paper. When he returned, Peter was carrying an A4 padded brown envelope. He knew its contents would stop her from asking any awkward questions about Father Mac.

"This is for you," he stated firmly as he handed it over.

Assumpta looked at him perplexed. She had absolutely no idea what was in it.

"What's this?" she enquired.

Peter didn't speak but gestured to her to open it. He watched nervously as she carefully slid her slender finger under the sealed flap and gently loosened the join. Assumpta's eyes widened as she revealed one of a bundle of banknotes - a thousand punts in total!

"Oh my God, you've been systematically embezzling the collection box for months!" she exclaimed.

"Ha! Ha! That would have only raised about two punts!" Peter replied sarcastically, "No, it's for you, to get someone in to re-wire Fitzgerald's. My mam left me a substantial amount of money in her will, for my future."

"I can't take this," Assumpta exclaimed stuffing the money back into the envelope as quickly as she could, before thrusting the package back at him. Peter held his hand up to stop her. He took hold of her gently by the wrists and pulled her towards him, the package wedged precariously between them. Peter looked at her directly in the eyes before declaring,

"Assumpta, _you're_ my future. If you don't get that wiring repaired soon, God know what will happen!"

He stared at her silently for several seconds, pleading with his expressive green eyes.

"You could get hurt," he continued in a whisper, "And I couldn't bear that."

For a moment, Assumpta felt ashamed, she was so used to being independent, not having to rely on anyone that she hadn't considered Peter's feelings at all.

"Okay, Peter, you win. Thank you! But I'm going to pay you back every penny."

Peter let out a long sigh and raised his eyebrows in relief, the right one characteristically higher than the left. It was a start. If they were going to make their relationship work, they would both have to learn to trust the other. He let go of Assumpta's wrists and wrapped his arms around her back before kissing her gently on the top of her head.

"It's your stubbornness I love the most!" he joked.

She punched him playfully before stretching up to him. Their lips met and they kissed lovingly for several seconds. Immediately afterwards, Peter slipped his hand into his trouser pocket.

"My mam also left me something else. She told me I had to give it to you."

Assumpta was puzzled, she'd never met Peter's mother. Why would she have left her something in her will? Without any warning, Peter lowered his gangly frame onto one knee in front of her. In his hands was a small blue velvet box.

"Assumpta Fitzgerald, will you marry me?"

For the second time in less than ten minutes, Assumpta stood open-mouthed. Without waiting for a reply, Peter opened the box to reveal a beautiful square cut diamond ring with a pale green emerald either side.

"My dad gave it to my mam. She said the first thing she'd ever noticed about him was his eyes. The emeralds were to remind her of them. She told me I have exactly the same eyes."

Peter reached for Assumpta's hand but she pulled it away. He looked at her, those same green eyes filled with hurt and disbelief. At that moment, Peter had the look of a small boy who had been chastised for something he hadn't done.

"It's beautiful, Peter," Assumpta eventually replied, her voice cracking as she did, "But I can't. Not now."

Tears were forming in the corner of Peter's eyes. He didn't comprehend Assumpta's reaction. She said she loved him. She'd made it very clear she didn't want to be his mistress, so why wouldn't she agree to marry him?

"I don't understand," he stuttered.

Assumpta reached for Peter's hands and held them tightly as she spoke.

"I love you more than I've ever loved anyone, Peter. You are my soul-mate, my true-love, of that I have absolutely no doubt. I want to be your wife someday, more than anything, but now is not the time - I'm still married to Leo and you're still a priest. When I say '_Yes_', I don't want there to be anything standing in our way. Do you understand?"

Peter nodded as relief flooded through every cell in his body. In spite of her fiery nature and her anti-religious attitudes, Assumpta Fitzgerald was still an old-fashioned Irish girl at heart!

-o-

She led him up the narrow staircase, determined to show him how much she loved him.

Upstairs, in Peter's bedroom, it was even more austere than in the rest of the cottage. There was just a small, single metal-framed bed (hardly big enough for a child, let alone a man of Peter's build); an old mahogany chest of drawers and a chair over which was draped a pair of grey sweatpants and a red and white football shirt for a team she didn't recognise. It wasn't the furniture that unnerved Assumpta; it was the crucifix above the bed.

Peter began to kiss her hungrily but she wasn't reciprocating. Something wasn't right and so he stopped.

"Assumpta, what's wrong?" he asked gently.

She was staring directly at the religious symbol.

"Peter….I can't…not with _that_ there," she whispered.

Assumpta watched as Peter lifted the cross off the bent nail that had held it in position for the past three years. She smiled as she watched him kiss the metal representation of Jesus before placing it in one of the drawers of the bedside chest. Peter turned to face her, his face gently reddening with embarrassment as he realised what he'd just done. It would be hard to eradicate the habits that had become second nature to him in the last ten or so years as a seminarian, a deacon and a priest.

-o-

The 'phone was ringing loudly. Assumpta was sleeping contentedly in his arms. Peter carefully eased himself away, trying his best not to disturb her. As he laid her back on the mattress, she gave out a little moan before re-positioning herself in the bed. Peter quickly pulled on his tracksuit bottoms and Middlesbrough shirt and headed down the stairs, two at a time.

-o-

From the bedroom doorway, Peter watched Assumpta's slumbering form, curled up in his bed. He marveled at how she could look so stunning even in her sleep - her dark auburn hair cascading haphazardly on his pillow, contrasting with the delicate translucency of her skin. He couldn't wait for the day when he could wake up next to her every morning.

Quietly he tiptoed over to the bed, knelt down beside it and planted a gentle kiss on her cheek. Her eyes fluttered as they adjusted to the light.

"Peter," she murmured sleepily.

"Sorry, love, I've got to go," Peter whispered in his lilting northern English tones, "That was Father Mac on the 'phone. The Bishop has summonsed us both to Dublin for an audience at 7.00 p.m."

Assumpta glanced at the clock on the chest of drawers. There was a glint in her eye as she turned to face him again.

"Oh no you don't! It's only 3.20 p.m. and you've got plenty of time," she uttered, taking hold of the bottom of his football shirt and pulling it back over his head, "You're mine, Peter Clifford, for at least another hour!"

She met no resistance!


	11. Chapter 11 Leave of Absence NEW 27 06

**Chapter 11 – Leave of Absence**

The study of the bishop's house was far grander than the presbytery at Cilldargan. An imposing Georgian, white marble fireplace dominated the room. Over its mantelpiece was a large photograph of His Holiness, Pope John Paul II. Ceiling-to-floor oak bookcases, filled with theology books, covered two of the four walls. The remaining surfaces were panelled in matching wood. The room was filled with antique furniture: a dark mahogany desk with matching upholstered chairs; a paler mahogany sideboard, upon which was an unlocked oak Tantalus with three lead crystal decanters (containing the finest Irish single malts); a green Italian leather Chesterfield and two matching chairs.

When Bishop O'Brien entered the room, Father Mac and Father Clifford immediately put down their tea cups and rose from their desk-side chairs. The bishop, dressed in his clerical clothes and pectoral cross, gestured to the two men to approach him.

"Your Excellency," they both acknowledged reverentially.

As protocol dictated, Father Mac knelt on his left knee and kissed the ring on the fourth finger of his superior's right hand. He was followed in quick succession by his curate. On completion of all formalities, the bishop signalled for the two men to sit back down by his desk. Bishop O'Brien seated himself on the opposite side, in a black executive chair, and looked directly at Peter, a solemn expression on his face.

"My son, Father Macanally tells me you wish to leave the priesthood."

Peter Clifford swallowed hard before replying," Yes, Your Excellency I do."

For the next twenty minutes, Peter explained eloquently and in detail the circumstances that had led to him wanting to give up his vocation. Father Mac was extremely supportive stressing to his superior that his curate's request was not a 'spur of the moment' decision but one that had been concluded after much soul-searching. The bishop remained stony-faced throughout.

After the two priests had finished presenting their 'case', Bishop O'Brien sat silently for several minutes, pondering his answer as he scrutinised a number of papers he had in front of him. Finally he looked at the young priest and began his reply.

"Father Clifford, I can release you from your parish duties in Ballykissangel but any application for laicisation can only be made by the bishop in your home diocese of Salford…..I, however, cannot support such a request, at this present time, as I see you have had a similar crisis before…."

The bishop picked up one of the pieces of paper in front of him and mulled over its contents before continuing.

"…Miss Clarke. You asked to be relocated from your former parish of St. Ignatius' because of her, didn't you?" he asked accusatorily.

Peter felt trapped. This information was obviously in his records. There was no point denying it, even though the situation with Jenny was completely different from that with Assumpta. As far as he was concerned, Jenny had just been a friend, it was only her that had felt anything more. Assumpta, on the other hand, was the love of his life and their feelings were mutual. Peter wanted to protest but he didn't want to make the state of affairs he was in any worse. His words were forced and conceding when they eventually came out.

"Yes, Your Excellency," he replied in barely a whisper.

Frank Macanally could see and hear the hope draining away from his sub-ordinate. He placed his left hand supportively on his curate's knee. Peter turned to face him, surprised by this gesture. Although no words were spoken, Father Mac's eyes were empathetic and clearly telling him not to give up.

The bishop leaned forward across the desk, his hands clasped across his ample waist.

"In that case, Father Clifford, my recommendation is that you are to return back to another parish in your home diocese in England, on a leave of absence. I think we need to put some distance between Miss Fitzgerald and yourself for say…..four months…..to see if this relationship is for real or just another infatuation."

"_Four months_!"

The words echoed round and round Peter's head. The pain in his heart was excruciating as anger engulfed his body. He'd only just found her and now he was going to lose her again. Was this God's punishment for breaking his vows?

Oblivious to the impact of his words on the curate, Bishop O'Brien twisted his chair to face Father Mac, who was regarding Peter with deep concern. The bishop coughed unsubtly to regain his sub-ordinate's attention.

"I will ring Bishop Mahon as soon as we are finished here to inform him of this situation. I will also tell him to expect Father Clifford tomorrow evening. I think it would prudent for your curate to stay here tonight. You will return back to Ballykissangel and collect his possessions and return with them tomorrow morning. There is a ferry to Liverpool around midday."

The bishop rose from his seat and walked towards the door without bidding farewell to either priest. As he turned the brass knob, he paused momentarily before turning to face the Parish Priest once again.

"Oh, and Father Macanally," he stated emphatically, "I expect you to use your discretion when explaining Father Clifford's absence to the parishioners."

-o-

The heavy study door slammed shut. Father Mac immediately manoeuvred back round to determine his curate's frame of mind. What he saw unnerved him - the normally placid Peter Clifford was shaking uncontrollably, his face was puce with rage and tears were streaming down his cheeks. He'd bitten his lip so hard (to prevent Bishop O'Brien seeing his wrath) that a small amount of blood was trickling from the wound he had made. Father Macanally had seen him angry before, (more often than not at him) but not like this. For once, the elder priest had no idea what to say or do. He stared helplessly around the room for several minutes before picking up a piece of paper and a pen from the desk and handing it to Peter.

-o-

The journey back from Dublin to Ballykissangel seemed much longer than normal. Frank Macanally was pre-occupied with what he was going to say to Assumpta Fitzgerald. It didn't matter how he phrased it, he knew she would be totally devastated by the outcome of the bishop's meeting. As his blue Rover crossed the bridge over the River Angel, he reflected how he normally enjoyed goading her, provoking her inevitable tirade of anti-church propaganda - but not today. He'd seen just how much Peter meant to her earlier that afternoon and he still remembered clearly the sorrow he'd felt the day Eileen Maguire had disappeared out of his life.

-o-

The publican smiled at the Parish Priest as he entered the bar. Her smile quickly turned to bewilderment as Assumpta realised Peter wasn't with him. She also quickly became aware that Father Mac was deliberately avoiding her gaze and she needed to know why. Trouble was she was too busy to relinquish her post behind the bar. The trade she'd had tonight was the best she'd had in a very long time - perhaps her life was looking up at last! She'd 'catch' the priest when he came to buy a drink.

Father Macanally wasn't sure he done the right thing, coming into Fitzgerald's during opening hours. The bar was extremely busy tonight and the conversation he had to have with Assumpta needed to be in private. He could already tell by the look on her face that she suspected something wasn't right and he wasn't quite ready to face her yet. He scanned the room, looking for an ally to sit with. All around were half-finished plates of food and he belatedly remembered that tonight was the Chinese Food Fair. Sat by the fire was Brian Quigley, local entrepreneur and 'friend' of the church, with his two 'side-kicks', Liam and Donal, and his newly recruited Chinese chef, Shamie Chung. The priest walked purposefully towards them, knowing that Brian wouldn't ignore him.

"Ah, good evening Father, come and sample some of tonight's entries," Brian said, welcoming his friend enthusiastically, "Donal, get Father Mac a whiskey."

The priest was glad for the invitation and for the offer of a stiff drink, as for now he could delay the inevitable (speaking to Assumpta), though he had no real appetite for Chinese or any other food for that matter.

-o-

The whole of Fitzgerald's was sat in silence as they waited for the declaration of the winner of the Food Festival trophy. Doctor Michael Ryan, local physician and judge of competition eventually stood up and began his speech.

"I'd like to thank everyone for their participation tonight. An amazing total of 768 punts has been raised for the Cilldargan scanner appeal, thanks to the generosity of the residents of Ballykissangel. Well done to you all!"

A huge cheer resounded round the bar.

"And now for the moment you have all been waiting for. The winner of the 1998 Chinese Food Festival is…."

The doctor paused for dramatic effect. Padraig nudged his two friends confident that his dish would be the winner. Brendan and Siobhan looked at each other, both of them shrugging their shoulders in disbelief.

"…Father Peter Clifford…," Michael continued, a wry smile on his face, "It would appear that his was the only entry out of thirty two not prepared by Shamie Chung!"

All of the regulars in Fitzgerald's looked shame-faced as they realised each of them had cheated by asking Brian's chef to prepare their entries. Brendan and Siobhan (neither of whom had entered the competition) were both laughing loudly at this announcement, much to Padraig's discomfort.

Doctor Ryan surveyed the room looking for the misplaced priest. He was hardly inconspicuous at 6ft 2in! Come to think of it, he hadn't seen Peter at all tonight, which was highly unusual. The curate had attended every local function in Ballykissangel since his arrival three years ago.

"Anyone seen Peter?" the doctor continued, "Father Mac?"

The Parish Priest was at a loss. He had been hoping to leave this announcement until Sunday's mass. He'd wanted Assumpta to know about the bishop's decision before anyone else, but he was now between a rock and a hard place!

"Err….." Frank Macanally began, atypically lost for words, his face reddening as his discomfort increased.

Without warning, the bar was plunged into total darkness providing a more than welcome 'get-out clause' for the Parish Priest. Assumpta fumbled under the bar trying to find the torch she had left there that afternoon, following the previous occasions the electrics had failed.

"I'll get it," Assumpta muttered tersely, heading towards the cellar steps.

"Oh no, you won't!" Padraig interjected grabbing the flashlight from her hands, "This is the fifth time today, Assumpta. This is a job for someone who knows what they're doing."

Padraig disappeared down into the cellar. He re-emerged a few minutes later, the pub still without any light, looking very grave.

"It's a deathtrap down there, Assumpta. I've turned off the mains. If anyone had touched those electrics…well, I dread to think!" he exclaimed shaking his head, "The whole lot needs condemning. I'll give you a quote for re-wiring tomorrow."

Assumpta was shaken by Padraig's words, especially as she remembered what Peter had said to her earlier. If she had gone down in the cellar, she could now be dead. The sooner Padraig started refurbishing the better.

"Sorry everyone, the Party's over!" she exclaimed ruefully, in her soft Irish lilt.

-o-

Fitzgerald's soon emptied and after locking the front door, Assumpta made her way blindly towards the kitchen, unaware that Father Mac was sitting in total darkness by the bar.

"Assumpta?" he whispered.

Startled, Assumpta turned round. She was convinced all her punters had left.

"Father Mac!" she exclaimed, shocked by his presence, "Why are you still here?"

The priest took the publican gently by the arm and led her into the kitchen.

"Assumpta, I need to talk to you about Peter. You need to sit down."

Assumpta stared at him perplexed as he led her, without speaking, to her rocking chair. There was an air of foreboding and she knew instinctively that Father Macanally wasn't here to deliver good news. The priest watched helplessly as the publican crumpled before him as he recounted the events in the bishop's study. When he had finished, Assumpta Fitzgerald was sobbing uncontrollably, as if her world had ended, rocking rhythmically in her chair.

"I'm sorry, Assumpta. I did everything I could, please believe me," Father Mac muttered, aware that there was nothing he could do to help her, "Peter asked me to give you this."

He handed her a folded piece of paper which she opened straight away.

_**My dearest Assumpta,**_

_**The bishop has ordered that I should take a leave of absence in England to determine whether what I feel for you is real or just an infatuation. I need you to know that I have absolutely no doubt that I love you and I know you love me, too. You once told me 'when two people are meant to be together there's no force on this earth that'll keep them apart' and it is that thought that will get me through the next four months. We will be together soon, I promise.**_

_**When I think of us I am reminded of a quote I heard many years ago (Aristotle, I think!) **_

"_**Love is a single soul dwelling in two bodies."**_

_**Assumpta, that is how I feel about you. Until you came into my life, there was something missing. You are my soul-mate, the one person that makes me complete. I will think about you every minute of every day until we are together again.**_

_**Please be strong, Assumpta. I love you with all my heart.**_

_**Peter x**_

_**P.S. You'll never get to heaven if you break my heart!**_

The Parish Priest watched as the deep sorrow on Assumpta's face turned into a smile. When she had finished reading the note, she closed her eyes and clutched it tightly to her chest.

-o-

Father Macanally waited patiently downstairs as Assumpta packed Peter's belongings into his light blue rucksack. It was the same one he had been carrying the first time she had seen him, the day she had rescued him from rain in her blue Renault van on the Dublin road above Ballykissangel. She smiled to herself as she remembered how young he'd looked, how out of his depth he appeared, an Englishman far away from home. Yet even then she'd sensed something special between them. As she finished emptying the chest of drawers, she found the small blue velvet box containing his mother's engagement ring. On opening the box, she remembered the story of the emeralds and their resemblance to his father's eyes…..Peter's eyes. Assumpta removed the ring from its box and slipped the ring onto the fourth finger of her right hand, rather than her ring finger. She now wished with all her heart that she had said, 'Yes!' when he'd asked her to marry him.

Soon all that was left was the pair of grey joggers and football shirt draped over the back of the chair. Assumpta quickly rolled the trousers and placed them carefully in the backpack. Finally, she picked up the Middlesbrough top and started to fold it, but as she did she was overcome by Peter's scent on the shirt. She raised it to her face and breathed him in, reliving the last time they had made love, here in this very room. Without any hesitation, Assumpta quickly stuffed the shirt into her handbag. She needed that shirt more than he did.

-o-

As she climbed into bed, Assumpta Fitzgerald pulled Peter Clifford's red and white football shirt over her head. It drowned her tiny frame. She didn't care – it smelt of him and she needed it to comfort her.


End file.
